And there you were.

On your knees. Lips red and swollen, your hands behind your back, his fingers tangled in your hair. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, but you didn’t need sound. The way he looked at you said it all.

Focused. Ravenous. Devoted.

You exhaled.

Closed the file.

And clicked on the next one.

By the time Bucky returned home, you were still on the couch, laptop on your thighs, arms folded tightly.

He walked in humming—something low and tuneless, his hoodie tugged halfway off over one shoulder. His hair was still damp from the drizzle outside. You didn’t say a word.

He froze when he saw your face.

“…What happened?”

You didn’t answer.

Just turned the laptop to face him.

His brows furrowed. He took two steps forward, then stopped cold when he recognized what you’d pulled up.

Color drained from his face.

He stared at it—the still frame, the timestamp, the exact moment you'd moaned something too wrecked to repeat—and then looked back at you.

“I can explain.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

“It’s not—” He paused. “I wasn’t being a creep.”

“You filmed me without asking.”

“I know.”

“In multiple scenes.”

“I know.”

“Stored on your personal laptop, labeled ‘Meetings,’ like a goddamn PowerPoint.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t watching them for—like—for that.”

You blinked slowly. “Oh, you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

His shoulders slumped.

“I needed to see,” he said finally.

You frowned.

“See what?”

“If I’d gone too far. If I hurt you. If… if you meant it. When you said I could keep going. When you begged me not to stop.”

You stared at him, unmoving.

“I didn’t want to doubt you,” he said. “But sometimes I look at you during and I think… fuck, she’s shaking, she’s crying, what if I missed something? What if I broke her and didn’t even notice?”

Your voice came out hoarse.

“You thought filming me would answer that?”

“I thought… maybe if I watched it later, I could tell the difference.” He swallowed. “Between pain and surrender. Between too much and perfect.”

Something hot bloomed behind your ribs.

He looked down at the laptop.

“I was going to tell you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t know if you’d ever let me do it again.”

You paused.

Then stood up.

“Come with me.”

His brows lifted. “What?”

“Bedroom. Now.”

He hesitated.

Then followed.

You stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. He lingered in the doorway.

“You like watching?” you asked, voice steady.

He nodded slowly.

“Then turn it on.”

“…You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

He didn’t move right away.

“You’re not angry?”

“Oh, I’m furious. But I want to know what you see. And I want you to see it, too—this time with permission.”

You stepped out of your sweatshirt. Peeled off your leggings.

“I want you to see how I choose this.”

He stared.

Frozen.

Then turned back to the door and grabbed the camera.

You made him sit in the chair.

Fully clothed.

Hands on his thighs.

Watching.

The camera blinked red in the corner of the room.

You took your time undressing.

Not for show.

For clarity.

Every motion slow, deliberate, intentional.

When you stood before him—bare, soft, unflinching—you stepped between his legs and leaned down.

“You don’t need playback to know I want this.”

He nodded, barely breathing.

“I want you.”

You straddled him, dragged your hands down his chest, and let your hips settle against the shape already hardening in his jeans.

And then you kissed him.

Slow and deep, like it was your name on his tongue.

When you reached between you and pulled him free, he groaned like it hurt. You stroked him once, twice, then leaned in close enough for him to feel your breath.

“You’re not allowed to touch me.”

His eyes fluttered.

“Not until I say.”

He nodded again.

“Say it.”

“I won’t touch you.”

“Good.”

You slid down onto him in one slow, tight push.

His head fell back.

You pressed your palms to his chest, riding him lazy and slow, your thighs working, your breath catching—but you never broke eye contact.

Not with him.

Not with the lens.

You came with your hand on your clit and his name in your mouth, trembling around him while he stared at you like he might fall apart without permission.

When he begged—low and hoarse and reverent—you nodded.

“Let me see it.”

And he did.

He came hard, hands still at his sides, mouth open, eyes locked on yours as his entire body jerked under you.

You held him through it.

Even after he finished.

Even after the room went quiet.

You reached for the remote.

Stopped the recording.

Then climbed off him, tucked yourself into his lap, and kissed his forehead.

He held you like you were glass.

Not shattered.

But cherished.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I know.”

He exhaled shakily.

“I’ll delete them.”

You pressed your nose to his neck.

“You don’t have to.”

He froze.

You whispered into his skin:

“But if you ever want to film me again…”

His breath hitched.

“…You’ll ask first.”

He nodded slowly.

“I will.”

You pulled back.

Met his eyes.

Then smiled.

“You really labeled it ‘Meetings?’”

His ears turned bright red.

“I panicked.”

You laughed—warm and wicked and full of the chaos he loved most about you.

“Well.” You reached for his hand. “Hope you brought your calendar.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re scheduling another one.”

-